


Time After Time

by katmarajade



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M, Harry Potter Next Generation, Past Relationship(s)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-05
Updated: 2015-11-05
Packaged: 2018-04-27 12:12:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,145
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5048107
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/katmarajade/pseuds/katmarajade
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Victoire returns home after ten years in Paris for her sister's wedding and runs into her ex-boyfriend Teddy. Spending time with him rekindles feelings she didn't even know she could have, and suddenly she starts to question where she belongs—and with whom.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Time After Time

**Author's Note:**

> This story would be far, far worse if not for: G, cheerleader, brainstormer, and beta extraordinaire; A, whose fabulous brain I picked time and time again about museums and art—if I've misrepresented any of it, it's entirely my own fault; and N, who graciously "French-picked" my story and offered invaluable assistance. And thank you to the mods who were wonderfully patient and helpful!

Sixteen. _Sixteen_. That is how many of her relatives have asked how she is holding up watching her little sister get married first, if she is seeing anyone, or if there are wedding bells in _her_ future. Snagging a champagne flute from a passing tray, she tosses back the entire glass in one go. 

"Victoire," comes a voice that she knows but can't quite place. She turns slightly to see the familiar sleepy smile of Teddy Lupin and promptly chokes on her champagne. 

It has been ten years since she's last seen him, since the nasty break up when she'd said horrible things and flounced off in a snotty seventeen-year-old snit. She cringes just remembering it. 

He looks _good_ , she observes appreciatively. His light brown hair is longer than she remembers it, though still just as messy, and there are a few lines around his butterscotch-coloured eyes now. The soft, sleepy smile, however, is exactly the same, and she has to restrain herself from rolling her eyes when her belly performs the same slow flip that it used to, back when Teddy was her ultimate teenage dream, the boy with whom she shared her first kiss and thought they'd be together forever. 

"So, I hear you're in Paris now. Is it everything you dreamed it would be?" Teddy asks, his smile wry but his tone polite. 

"Yes, it's amazing," she answers, trying to manage a light-hearted smile. Curse it, this is ridiculous. She is a grown woman, mature, poised—and apparently someone who still turns into a complete fool in the presence of an old crush! 

It isn't as if she's been pining for him all these years. Certainly not! She had gleefully moved on from ill-fitted clothing and far-too-much sincerity to French businessmen with fashionable suits, exquisite taste in wine, and talented tongues. Well, she'd enjoyed their company at first. 

These past few years, she's given up on men entirely. Dating is exhausting and far too complicated. She has no time to meet anyone outside of work, and she learned the hard way that dating within her field undermines her professional standing. While a certain amount of charm and flirtation are required in the French workplace, particularly for women, any actual dalliances or illusions thereof result in heated rumours about her trying to sleep her way to the top and using her feminine wiles or Veela heritage to get ahead in the workplace. It's a very fine line to walk. No matter how skilled or knowledgeable she is, no matter that she is a better candidate in every way, it seems her career advancement is a precarious minefield. Any achievements she makes are credited to her hourglass figure or her silver-blonde hair instead of her impressive resume and eye for detail. 

With those hard-earned lessons under her belt, she's grown up. Her clothing now is impeccable and professional; her hair is always pulled back severely; and she's mastered the fine art of the disdainful sneer, something she'd never learned as a child. At times she misses the cheerful, silly, _fun_ girl she'd been, back when she was young and naïve, back when she let herself grin—really grin, all big and goofy and gummy—without censor. She misses the girl who was smitten with boys like Teddy, polite and proper boys who don't see her as their personal plaything and who ignore career opportunities so they can stay home in their quiet, boring, little villages and take care of their grandmothers. But she is not that girl anymore. She scolds herself for being charmed by an old school flame and takes a deep, fortifying breath. 

"You look like you could use another drink. Fancy a beer?" Teddy asks.

Victoire tries to school the look of disgust that creeps up on her face as she stares at the proffered glass of sickly, piss-coloured swill that Teddy is holding. 

"Er, no … thank you," she manages before meeting Teddy's gaze and seeing the laughter dancing in his eyes, the obvious amusement quivering around the edges of his smile. She lets out a huff. "You're joking."

"Obviously. This stuff tastes like absolute shite. No offense to your sister, but her new husband obviously has no taste buds. This is allegedly his favourite brew. Your mother insisted on approving the wine list though, so it should be decent. May I buy you a glass?"

"It's an open bar," she says dryly.

"Excellent—then feel free to choose the good stuff!"

"Like I'd bother with anything less," she shoots back, and she's a bit surprised to find herself smiling. 

"Oh, I remember," Teddy says. She looks up at him sharply, at first thinking his comment to be a barb, but her comeback melts on her lips when she sees his expression, soft and affectionate and almost proud. 

There is more champagne and dancing and _laughing_ , and Victoire honestly can't remember the last time she's laughed like this, the delighted giggle of her younger self and not the composed, polite chuckle she's since perfected. So long she's spent proving herself to be the consummate professional, striving to ensure she's seen as more than just a beautiful, youthful face. She enjoys her work, truly loves her job, but while it's challenging and fascinating, it's also difficult and consuming. 

Teddy spins her around dramatically, ending the song with a deep dip, and she feels her perfect chignon slip, the strands tickling at the nape of her neck. It's been so long since she's let down her guard like this, let her hair down both literally and figuratively. It's wonderful and terrifying, and she suddenly finds herself overwhelmed. She excuses herself to find some water, not quite ready to let Teddy get a good look at her right now. For as long she can remember, he's been able to see through her, and she doesn't think it's fair that he might figure out what she's feeling before she has a chance to decipher this new and unsettling mess of emotions herself. 

When she Disapparates from the ladies' ten minutes later, she tells herself it's exhaustion due to the time change. 

***

Late the next morning, Teddy brings over doughnuts and coffee. She bites hesitantly into one covered in thick white frosting and tiny toffee bits and makes a face at the intense sweetness. When he notices her expression, he smiles and hands her a coffee, which she readily accepts. 

The coffee, too, is sweeter than she prefers these days, and it reminds her of all the time she and Teddy spent consuming cloyingly sweet concoctions at the little coffee shop and bakery in Ottery St. Catchpole. Now she drinks her coffee like a proper Parisian, a café au lait in the morning and espresso at regular intervals throughout the day. However, considering her parents don't drink coffee and only have a tiny tin of Nescafe that has to be at least five years old, Victoire simply thanks Teddy for the caffeine fix. 

They both sip leisurely at their drinks, and she watches in amazement as Teddy eats his way through the entire box of doughnuts. She wonders if it's possible for a person's bloodstream to mutate into a river of sugar syrup. She tries to remember what it was like to have that much sugar buzzing through her veins on a regular basis because when they were teenagers they both had huge sweet tooths and ate like this daily when left to their own devices. Yet another way she's changed. 

He asks about life in Paris, her recent trip to Cairo, and what she thinks of her new brother-in-law. She answers easily, telling him silly little anecdotes about her grandparents' latest litter of puppies and the bickering couple who own the bakery below her flat. She tells him about Egypt and the incredible work she was part of there, how amazing the opportunity was and how she feels a little guilty for taking advantage of her father's connections, even though she knows that's how the game is played and it's all about whom you know. 

It's easy to talk to him, and it's been a long time since she has felt like she could really let her guard down with someone. Even discussions with her family can be loaded. She can't admit that she misses England—the slightest slip and she's dealing with prying questions about when she's going to move back home, why she doesn't visit, or, worst of all, when she is going to meet a nice man and settle down. She's missed this kind of easy conversation, full of thoughtful dialogue and playful banter. It's always been easy to talk with Teddy. Maybe some things have stayed the same after all. 

A couple hours later, their conversation is interrupted when Victoire gets a frantic Floo from her boss in Paris. For twenty minutes she's busy reassuring him that, even though she is out of the office, she is still on top of the situation, as usual. She tells him the current status of the requisition paperwork (filed with the proper departments, both Muggle and Magical) and who needs a copy of the customs documents when they arrive. Once again, she finds herself explaining the jurisdiction issues involved with this particular case. (The artist in question had left no official will, and his Muggle siblings were arguing that his wizarding wedding was not legally binding, as he had not first obtained a civil marriage at their hometown _mairie_ , as French law requires, and therefore _they_ were the default beneficiaries instead of the German Witch he'd married. The wife, of course, disagrees.)

While she's occupied, Teddy slips out and returns a half hour later with a pair of paper-wrapped pasties. It's been _years_ since she's had one, and they're her absolute favourite. Victoire devours the beef pasty with unconcealed delight, and it isn't until she's licking her fingers clean that she thinks to be embarrassed at her spectacle and utter lack of manners. She looks up warily, but Teddy does not seem disgusted or even amused. He's simply nibbling at his own pasty and playing around with one of the puzzles her dad always has out. 

She fixes them both a cup of tea. Every so often she offers a suggestion to the puzzle Teddy's trying to solve, and he shoots her grateful grins every time her ideas work. It gives her a warm feeling inside, and she realises that it's been a long time since someone—particularly of the male persuasion—has truly appreciated her assistance without feeling threatened or pretending it was his idea all along. Competition is fierce among her colleagues back in Paris, everyone looking to make a name for themselves, trying to win the next grant, get the next big break, make the next discovery. 

When he finishes the puzzle, he gives her a high five and exclaims, "We did it!" 

She had forgotten what an odd duck he is. 

"So, I've got a surprise for you," says Teddy as he's getting ready to leave. He offers the same sleepy smile when Victoire eyes him curiously, but his eyes are alight with excitement as he asks her to meet him the next day in the Brompton district at a little café that he swears makes a decent café au lait and is right next door to a Belgian bread shop that features some of the best croissants in London. Already missing her usual breakfast, she readily agrees. It has nothing at all to do with the way his lazy smile makes her tummy twist and her breath hitch. That's obviously due to the abnormally large amount of sugar she's eaten today and probably the smog in London. 

***

As she'd secretly hoped given the location of their meeting, the breakfast is followed by a trip to the Victoria & Albert Museum.

"Do you work here?" Victoire asks, her voice trailing off as she is distracted yet again by a tapestry that she is sure hadn't been part of the collection back when she had frequented the museum. The bold displays and carefully curated exhibits had always made the Victoria & Albert Museum one of her favourites. She and Teddy had often gone together as teenagers, poring over the collections and sharing pasties and tea in the V & A café. Victoire had even then been obsessed with their portrait miniatures, and she'd insisted on going to the exhibition on shoes at least two dozen times the summer before her seventh year. 

"No, I don't work here. I'm not quite that cool, unfortunately. I actually work for a big law firm in their art department. They work with a lot of the London museums helping with acquisitions, transfer of ownership, provenance, that sort of thing. Well, I'm not actually one of the lawyers. I do transcriptions. 130 words per minute—I'm the fastest in the entire company _and_ I've better accuracy than the best Dicta-Quill on the market." He pauses and wrinkles his nose. "It doesn't sound terribly impressive, but I do all right for myself. Anyway, we work with the V  & A curators pretty regularly, which is how I found out about this."

They stop at a door near the end of a long corridor away from the public exhibits. "I think you will appreciate this." Teddy waggles his eyebrows and pauses dramatically outside a door before swinging it open with a flourish. 

Victoire rolls her eyes at his antics but steps inside. 

She gasps when she sees the row of tiny portraits. "Are these Clouet? The shading—see how the colours blend, so subtle … he was painting in this style long before da Vinci coined the similar _sfumato_ technique, but so few of his works have survived that he couldn't be properly credited for his advances in the field. It's long been known that he was a Wizard, as Homme, Jamart, and Piette all credit him as a mentor in the field of Wizarding Portraiture, but there was never any proof that he'd done enchanted portraits himself, though obviously he had to have done ... I spent hours no-- _days_ studying his drawings at au Musée Condé, au Château de Chantilly, for my master d'Histoire de l'art."

Victoire shakes her head and forces herself to stop rambling. Teddy is looking at her with the oddest expression. There's an almost dazed to his eyes, as if he's just been sucker-punched in the belly and hasn't quite caught his breath yet. But then he shoots her a quick smirk and reverts back to his standard Teddy expression—sleepy eyes, crooked smile, and the friendliest, most genuine face Victoire has ever (in twenty-seven years, three continents, thirteen countries, one hundred-and-fourteen cities) encountered. 

"I know," he says easily, smiling at the confused look on her face. "Do you think that you weren't the subject of many a conversation at the Burrow? Your mum and dad are perhaps the proudest parents on the planet, and they talk about you incessantly and have done for years. Anyway, they told me that you were studying portrait miniatures, including Clouet. I was part of the team that helped with this new acquisition, and when I found out what it contained, I immediately thought of you."

"Thank you," she whispers. 

"There's actually …" Teddy's voice trails off and Victoire tears her eyes away from the paintings just long enough to eye him curiously. "Never mind," he mutters and lets her turn back to the collection. 

They remain there for nearly three hours, Victoire circling the room and examining each piece closely, making tiny exclamations of delight at the signature elements and the breath-taking brushwork. She's so caught up that Teddy eventually has to guide her out of the room when the curator appears, giving them both a curious look. 

"That's incredible, Teddy. I never thought I'd get an opportunity to see something like that up close! I just …" She sighs with happiness and smiles. 

Teddy smiles back, and she huffs out a little laugh when he pulls out a battered, old tin and offers her a jam tart. Homemade, his specialty, they're strawberry, her favourite. She takes a bite and thinks this is perhaps the best day of her life.

"So my friend at the V&A is tasked with finding a curator to process the new collection. She's agreed that you would be a perfect fit and wants to meet you if you are interested."

"If I'm interested!" Victoire lets out an undignified squeak and actually flails her hands in front of her before stopping short. "Wait. You got me shortlisted for a job? Thanks, but no thanks. I'm extraordinarily qualified, Teddy, and I'll have you know I can damn well get my own interviews and my own positions for that matter. And why one earth would you go out of your way and waste what was undoubtedly a huge favour to help an ex-girlfriend with whom you've not spoken in nearly a decade?"

Teddy opens his mouth to answer but closes it again, looking pained. Taking a deep breath, he tries again. "I did call in a favour, Victoire. A big one, too. But, erm, I didn't exactly do it for you …" He shifts uncomfortably in his seat and gives her a desperate look. 

"Then for whom?" she asks briskly, slipping back into her sharp professional façade. 

"Your parents," Teddy mumbles, and Victoire gives him a look of disbelief. "They wanted you to have a good reason to come back—to come _home_. And they are always talking about you and your studies and your work and all the amazing stuff you're doing and …"

"You know how much I hate not earning my own way, Teddy. I have to fight twice as hard to be taken seriously just because I happen to be blonde and beautiful. It's taken me years to start forming a solid professional reputation, and now you want to just hand me a golden opportunity because you think you owe my parents something?"

"Well, that's not exactly … You have to admit that this would be your dream job. So it's not like I got you an interview with the bloody Department of Sanitation or something. Besides, I hadn't seen or heard from you in _years_. The last time I saw you before you moved to France, you told me I was a pathetic homebody loser who would never go anywhere in life because I was tangled in my grandmother's apron strings and obsessed with making my too-many parental figures think I was perfect. Yeah, I remember that pretty clearly. So honestly, I wasn't overly concerned with what you thought about the whole thing. I certainly wasn't expecting to … well, I wasn't expecting you to be … " He lets out a frustrated sigh. 

Victoire winces at the reminder of what she said all those years ago, back when she was desperate to get out on her own, back when she'd arrogantly thought that she could do anything, back when she was just a naïve little girl. 

"I'm sorry about that," she says, setting aside her indignation and shock for a moment. "I should never have said those things to you. I knew your grandmother needed you, and I was angry that all our grand plans of traveling around the world would never happen. I just wanted to go somewhere—anywhere! And I was upset that you didn't want to go with me."

"Part of me did," he admits, shrugging his shoulders and not meeting her eyes. "I wanted to go to Paris and Cairo and New York City, just like we said. I wanted to travel through India and to eat sushi in Japan and tacos in Mexico. But I needed to be here, to be home with my family and everyone I love. I needed that a lot more than I wanted tacos or the Taj Mahal."

"I get that," she says. "I mean, I don't really get it—I can't imagine _not_ wanting to get out there and see everything. But I guess I can at least respect why you would want to stay."

"And I get why you would want to go," Teddy says. "But I can't really imagine leaving everyone and everything that I love. I would miss out on too much here, and I think that this is the stuff I would regret missing a lot more than seeing Pyramids and palm trees."

"Agree to disagree?" she asks. 

"Sure." Teddy's grin is back, and Victoire's heard pounds with the realisation that she's the one to put that smile there, to put it back where it belongs. 

"It might be a dream job," she admits. "But I can't leave Paris right now. I'm really making a name for myself there, and I can't imagine what they would say if they heard I was running home to a cushy job that my daddy got for me." 

"So you won't even consider a fantastic opportunity because of what some French twits might think about you?"

"They're not all French, and they're not twits. Well, not all of them at least. And no, that's not the _only_ reason." 

Teddy gives her a questioning look, and she finds herself blushing. "If I come back, my family will be in my business constantly. I will be harangued by my matchmaking aunts and my meddling mother and my overprotective father and my sister who will be all smug in her bloody wedded bliss and …"

"So, really you don't want to come home because your family loves you too much," Teddy says quietly, and Victoire finds herself momentarily speechless. "Your family is pretty amazing, Victoire. They're absolutely mad about you. They miss you."

"I miss them, too."

"So you're sacrificing what could possibly be an amazing career opportunity because your Aunt Audrey likes to ask inappropriate questions about people's reproductive futures and your Aunt Gabrielle is obsessed with setting up completely incompatible people on blind dates?"

Victoire sighs and runs a hand through her hair, an indecisive gesture that she usually tries to avoid. "That's not fair. It's complicated. I'm not dismissing this opportunity flat out, but I have a good job in Paris, and I'm not ready to sacrifice that either."

"Agree to disagree?" He throws her words back at her with a playful smirk. 

"Oh, shut up, Lupin," she snaps. "And give me another one of those jam tarts, will you?"

Teddy grins. Somehow, he always makes her smile, even when she doesn't quite want to. She's not sure how she feels about that. 

There's an awkward pause like they're both wondering if they should go home, but then Teddy offers his arm and a tentative smile. Like that, they're walking through the streets debating whether to get fish or curry, but they're both in firm agreement that there should be chips involved either way. An hour later they order the chips to tide them over while they bicker, and soon after that they give up and get cheese toasties because their stomachs are rumbling too loudly to wait. 

After their fine street dining experience, Teddy insists on taking her to a posh wine bar with gorgeous stemware and a snobby waiter who sneers at Teddy's scuffed trainers. Victoire laughs at Teddy's face when the sommelier hands them the wine list, which is larger than _Hogwarts: A History_. Victoire takes pity on him and orders them a bottle, leaving Teddy to nod sagely in agreement as if he has the faintest idea what Right Bank or Croix de Justice Puisseguin St. Emilion means. She can't help her smile when he gamely swirls his Bordeaux and gives her a _here goes nothing!_ expression before taking a sip. 

They talk for hours, and Victoire's not sure whether it's the wine or Teddy that makes the conversation flow so easily. She's missed this or perhaps missed him. It's hard to know, but when she eagerly accepts his invitation to have another drink at his place, she knows it's not the wine talking. 

With a dramatic flourish, Teddy sheepishly presents her with the only bottle of wine he can find in the cabinet, and she bursts out laughing. 

"Teddy, that's a _plastic_ bottle!" 

"Finest, erm," he glances at the brightly coloured label. "White zinfle you can get for £1."

"It's _zinfandel_ , and you know we're not drinking that, don't you?"

His smirk lasts only for a second before smoothing into his familiar lazy smile, but the effect on her belly lasts far longer, and her insides do a slow, lingering loop-de-loop. She bites her lip and gives him a look, one she wonders if he remembers. His cheeks flush immediately and his eyes search hers intently, and she knows that he remembers all too well. She smiles, throws the unopened bottle of cheap pink wine into the bin, and pulls him towards her, crushing their lips together. 

*** 

She wakes up hugging a fluffy pillow, curled up in soft, nearly threadbare sheets that she's pretty sure Teddy bought when he first moved out of his grandmother's house back when they were still together. The space next to her is empty, but the bed is still warm. She rolls over and hears the low rumbles of conversation coming from the living room. Grabbing a cardigan that Teddy had left out, she walks to the door but pauses when she hears her mother's voice coming from the fireplace, though she can't make out her mum's side of the conversation. 

"She's fine, Fleur," Teddy says and from the faint ring of exasperation in his tone, it sounds like this isn't the first time he's said it. "Look, I've already told you that she is safe and well, that she decided to crash here, and that I'm not going to wake her up in the middle of the night to discuss this.”

"Perhaps she should have told you that she wasn't coming home last night, but that's between you two. And honestly, she's a grown woman who's been thriving on her own for years. I don't think she's going to react well to her parents trying to set her a curfew."

"I wouldn't know … and I'm certainly not discussing that! Look, you need to take that up with Victoire."

"Oh, don't try that guilt trip nonsense with me!" The irritation in Teddy's tone surprises her because Teddy is usually so easy-going and non-reactive. "Victoire cares about you plenty—far more than she lets on. Just because she wants independence and her own life doesn't mean that you and your entire family are not _incredibly_ important to her and implying otherwise is insulting."

"I know you miss her. I … I miss her, too." His voice softens. "Oh, for the love of Merlin—you did _not_ just ask me that! There are not words to express just how much _not_ your business that is."

There's a long pause before Teddy answers the next question. "No, we're not together. Look, she's certainly not going to stay in England for my sake. I'm the boring ex-boyfriend who never left home. I'm not exciting or well-travelled. I know nothing about wine and not nearly enough about art. I'm just the buffer between her and you lot. I'm the one who buys her crappy street food and bakes biscuits. I'm not the sort who could sweep someone like Victoire off her feet, if she even wanted to be swept, which I sort of doubt. She likes standing on her own two feet too much for that kind of romantic rot. 

"Besides, she has good reasons for staying in France even though it keeps her away from you lot—and she does miss you, that's obvious. If she's not interested in moving back here for a prime career opportunity, and yes, I think my sales pitch was pretty damn good, then she's certainly not going to move back for my sake. Not that I'd ever be stupid enough to ask her to. One thing I do know about your daughter is that she's fiercely independent and stubborn. Trying to keep her here is a sure-fire way to push her away."

"Bloody hell! _No_! You can't use me to get her to stay. Not only would it really piss me off it, but it wouldn't work anyway."

"It's late. This discussion has got out of hand, and I'm tired. Please, just leave it alone for tonight. I will ask her to talk to you when she wakes up, all right?"

"I know you do. I love her, too."

He lets out a laugh, but it's a tired, sad sort of sound. "That was never the problem. Good night."

Teddy closes the grate, and the green flames vanish. He sits back on his heels and rubs a hand against his face the way he does when he's irritated or frustrated. She's surprised that she remembers that sort of detail about him; she thought she'd forgotten most of them. He's sad and he's sweet, and part of her yearns to rush over and comfort him, to thank him for sticking up for her, to kiss away every tiny worry that he's not enough. 

Before she can get too sentimental though, she stops herself. She's not staying here. She has a job back in Paris, a good job with opportunities for advancement. She isn't going to sacrifice everything she's worked for so she can attend more family dinners or please her parents, who are a bit hypocritical to be so hell-bent on her moving home when they're the ones who encouraged such wanderlust in the first place! Did her father not remember how annoying he found Grandma Weasley's constant fretting and hinting to come back from Egypt? Did her mother not recall how upset Grand-Maman and Grand-Papa were when she decided to move to England for a boy at age eighteen?

She won't give up on her dream for them. (And honestly, it hurts that they want her to.) She won't do it for a boy either, even a nice boy who is now a genuinely kind man and who has a lot more to offer than he seems to realise—and not just his brilliant jam tarts. 

Before she can change her mind, she fumbles for her dress, which had been tossed near the foot of the bed if she's remembering correctly. She pulls it on, tries to ignore the sharp sense of shame swirling in her stomach, and Disapparates. She tells herself it's the only way for her to stay strong, but she's never felt more cowardly in her life.

*** 

One month, two Howlers (her mother and grandmother), and a questionable number of bottles of wine later, she opens the door of her flat in Paris to find Teddy. Her heart pounds, and she waits for the uncomfortable (but fair) question about why she ran away, but it never comes. To her shock, he announces that he's taken a temp job at for a law firm that specialises in art acquisitions, the same one that Victoire uses for her work at the museum. It's similar to what he had done in London, he's not sure how long he'll stay, and he wants to have dinner with her. 

At first she thinks the move temporary, more like a holiday than anything else. But he stays for weeks, then months. He goes back to England twice a week for tea with his grandmother and every other Sunday for dinner at the Burrow. After a few weeks, Victoire starts going back with him. Popping back for a visit seems less daunting with Teddy there. 

With his too-long trousers, flashy neckties, and brightly coloured cardigans, Teddy always appears out of place alongside his sharply dressed colleagues who favour suits and cashmere in shades of brown and black. His French is mediocre at best; however, he's remarkably good at transcribing it despite his horrendous accent while speaking. For some reason, though he has near perfect recall at work, he cannot remember a single variety of wine that Victoire recommends, which seems to distress him. Teddy's determined to learn to like wine, and he often asks for her help. Once, she catches him reading a ridiculous Muggle book called _Wine for Dummies_. He blushes furiously and tries to appear nonchalant while shoving the book violently into his bag. 

She wonders if this is becoming something or if she's just lonely and he's comfortable and there (and an admittedly fantastic shag). He never says a word though, and she isn't ready to risk it herself. 

It is a slow build of dinners and wineries. There are hours spent wandering around museums and lazy Sundays spent baking jam tarts (always strawberry) and working on puzzles. Occasionally, Teddy falls asleep on her couch. Those are the nights where Victoire tosses and turns, unable to sleep, wondering if these growing feelings are only a desperate need for another good tumble or if she's actually falling for him—again. 

She's not sure if it would be good if she were. 

But she's starting to think it might not be bad. 

The nightmarish legal battle that Victoire has been fighting for over a year finally seems to be wrapping up, which means that the cache of portraits that has been languishing in storage will be displayed at the museum and appreciated once again. She's put in a year's worth of legwork and a mountain of paperwork to make this a reality, so she's unsurprised and a little pleased when her boss calls her into his office. 

"We just received the official go ahead from the head solicitor on the case, which means the portraits should be transferred into our custody within the next 48 hours. We will be expediting the authentication and the rest of the accessioning procedures so we can get them on display as quickly as possible. Due to the importance of this collection and the stringent demands of accessioning such a large acquisition on a deadline, I've decided to dedicate our top curator to the task."

Victoire feels a swell of pride in her chest. For so long she's worked for this, worked longer and harder than any of her peers, desperate to prove herself. Now she's pulled off a coup—winning the legal rights to a veritable treasure trove of art when everyone else had written it off as impossible. _Finally_ she is being recognised for her efforts and talents!

"Starting tomorrow, Lambert will be taking lead on processing the new collection. You did a great job with the paperwork, so I want you to put together a brochure for the display. Lambert will provide you with the necessary details on the artwork and history."

"Sir?" Victoire asks, unsure if she's understood him properly. After everything she's done for this collection and considering how she knows the history of this art and the details of the portraits themselves more intimately than anyone else at the museum, it's inconceivable that her boss is going to tear this away from her, is going to hand the final glory lap to bloody _Lambert_! 

"Is there a problem?" her boss asks, appearing annoyed at her lack of enthusiasm.

"Sir, this should be my position. I've proven myself to be a dedicated and efficient curator. Why am I being relegated to writing the literature when this should be _my_ exhibit. I'm the reason the museum received the legal rights to these portraits, and I have gone above and beyond to acquire them for us. I know this collection better than anyone, certainly far better than Lambert. The position should be mine."

"You did great work," he agrees, giving her a patronising smile. "We just feel that Lambert is better suited to this work. Besides, you have shown how well you can write, so it simply makes sense to have you in charge of the brochure."

Fury dances behind her eyes and roars in her ears. "I am a curator, not a secretary, and I am not here to write oversimplified blurbs for the masses."

"They're a very important part of the display, Weasley."

"I know they're important. I also know it's not my part of my job to write them. That's what we have a literature department for."

"Weasley, I do not like this new attitude of yours," he says with a frown.

"It's not attitude, sir. It's clarity. I'm one of the best curators in this department, and I'm sick of being overlooked and passed up for opportunities. I work twice as hard and have more talent than most of your golden boys like Lambert, and yet they get the best cases and receive all the credit, even when I'm the one doing the work. It's crap, sir. I can do better, and I'm going to. Please consider this my resignation. I'll have the official paperwork on your desk in the morning. As you keep telling me, I'm very good at it."

Spinning on her high heel, Victoire takes the last word and what's left of her pride and marches out of the office. She grabs her purse and her favourite coffee cup, and she Disapparates.

She means to go home, but somehow she ends up striding down Rue Saint-Honoré and into Brillant & Associés, her boldly clicking heels faltering slightly when she gets smiles and waves from a few of the solicitors with whom she'd interacted regarding her last case, the case she thought would be her big break, the case that wound up destroying her career. 

This was a bad idea. She is about to leave, to Disapparate without a word. Running away seems to be her signature move these days, she thinks with a small, brittle smile as she pulls out her wand. 

"Victoire!" Teddy's shock is obvious; so is his delight. When he grins at her, it's pure and unfiltered and _beautiful_ , and she is mortified when she bursts into tears right in the middle of the corridor. 

Quickly ushering her into his private office, Teddy pulls her into a hug, murmuring soft, gentle reassurances. He doesn't ask what's wrong; he knows that she'll tell him once the tears have stopped. 

When she finally pulls away and lets out a shuddering breath, he reaches across his desk and pulls out two bottles of Butterbeer—the good stuff that one can only find in Hogsmeade—and hands one to her. It's such a Teddy sort of gesture, she thinks fondly. She passes the chilled glass back and forth between shaking hands for a moment before speaking.

"Do you still have that contact at the V & A?"

He looks at her curiously, cautiously. "Of course. Unlike you, I don't burn bridges with Fiendfyre."

She shrugs and tips her bottle towards him in a silent _touché_. 

"I'm sure they've already accessioned that Clouet exhibit though," he says. 

"I know. That's not what this is about. While that might have been a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, it can only qualify as a true dream job when the timing is right. And now? Well, I'm in the market for a dream job." She smiles weakly at Teddy's furrowed brow. "I just quit my job at the museum. I lost the position I'd been so sure was mine, and to a total tosser, too. It was just … I thought I would make something of myself here, but I'm not, and I think, maybe, it's time to try something new. Or something old?"

"You're thinking of moving back to England?" Teddy asks, his wide amber eyes hopeful but wary.

"I am. Paris is amazing, and I love it here. I am so glad that I've been able to live on my own—truly my own—and establish myself as a person, find my independence. I still think moving here was the best decision I've ever made, but I finally feel like maybe it's time to go back. You were right—I _do_ miss my family, even the annoying aspects."

"They are going to be so chuffed!" Teddy enthuses. 

"I know," Victoire says with a hint of a laugh in her voice. Then she takes a deep breath, bites her lip, and asks the other big question. "Are they the only ones who want me back?"

The shift in demeanour is immediate. Teddy goes preternaturally still, his eyes darken and burn into her with a searing intensity that warms her from head to toe and turns her insides into a glowing swirl of desire, the sort that aches with rightness and spins your head into a dizzy fog. She marvels at the sensation—she'd forgotten she could even feel like this, or maybe she never even knew it was possible. Her breath hitches and time seems to slow as their gazes lock. 

His tawny eyes narrow, and she knows he's asking if she's sure. She lets out a shaky breath, almost laughing from the thrill of emotion coursing through her body, and suddenly she's grinning, really grinning. The too-big, beaming smile that scrunches her nose, turns her eyes into shining crescent moons, and shows her gums; it's the smile she banished from her repertoire when she'd first moved to France for not being _adult_ enough. It's joy and _Teddy_ , and she knows she couldn't wipe the expression off her face right now even if she tried. 

She nods. 

Fast as lightning, Teddy is there. He's touching his forehead to hers, winding his long fingers into her pinned-up hair, and letting out a shivering breath that's not quite a laugh, not quite a moan. Victoire slips her arms up and through his, wrapping them around his neck, pulling him even closer. She leans up for a kiss but pulls away laughing.

"I'm smiling too much to kiss you!" she says, shaking her head in giddy amazement. His answering grin shows her she's not alone. 

Teddy's hands dip down sharply, grabbing her thighs and pulling her up off the ground until her legs wrap around him. He spins her around, both of them laughing, and she lets out a little gasp when she finds her back pressed firmly against the wall. 

Suddenly she doesn't feel like laughing. 

"Teddy," she whispers. Pulling him in, hands cupped around his neck and tangling in his hair, she kisses him. 

It's warm and wet and wonderful. It's achingly familiar and somehow brand new, all at the same time. It's heavy with hope and laden with love. 

It's like the thrilling rush of traveling somewhere uncharted and new and the cosy comfort of finally coming home.

It's everything she needs and everything she wants all wrapped up in one unexpectedly perfect package, and she never wants to let go again. Judging by the adoration that Teddy is pouring into her with every worshipful touch of his hands, every languid, longing, loving pull of his lips along hers, every awe-filled gasp, he feels the same way.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading! You can show your appreciation for the author in a comment here or on [livejournal](http://hp-nextgen-fest.livejournal.com/88587.html).


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